Secret Agent Santa

by Carol Ericson

  “Sure.” He wiped the crumbs from the counter and swept their trash into a paper bag.

  “Ah, a self-sufficient bachelor.”

  He was beside her in an instant with a dish towel. “I’ve had years and years of practice. Now hand me that mug so I can dry it and put it away.”

  He put the dishes in the cupboard and leaned over the counter where his laptop was charging. He powered it on and entered his thousands of passwords before spinning the computer toward her. “Go for it. I’m going to brush my teeth before we head into town.”

  With a little hitch in her breath she accessed the discussion board and scanned the messages. She blew out a breath. Nothing much new and nothing from Hamid. Her message waited for an answer.

  “Anything?” Mike came up behind her smelling like mint.

  “Not yet, but I’m confident he’ll check this board.”

  “If you say so.” He logged off and slipped the computer into the bag. “I’m taking it with me, so we can check again while we’re out. Let’s get ready to go.”

  “I’m going to brush my teeth and pull my hair back.”

  When she returned to the living room, she joined Mike, standing in front of the mirror by the front door.

  He pulled a fur-lined cap with earflaps low on his forehead. “How’s this? Do I fit in?”

  She turned the flaps down over his ears, brushing his hair back. “You look like any other Northeasterner in the winter.”

  “I’d still be more comfortable with a bit of a disguise.” She wound a dark scarf around her neck, covering the lower half of her face. “What do you think?”

  “It’s a start.” He threw open the closet door next to them and pawed through the coats. He yanked one off its hanger and held it up. “You’d look less like you with this cover-up than with that long, black coat that screams well-heeled city girl.”

  She glanced at her coat draped over one of the love seats and stepped forward to take the dark green down coat from Mike. But he held it open and said, “Turn around.”

  She did so, and he draped it on her shoulders, his fingers skimming the sides of her neck. She shivered as she stuffed her arms into the sleeves. Why did his touch always feel like an electric current dancing across her skin?

  The down coat fell right above her knees, leaving a gap of denim between the hem and the top of her black boot.

  She finished the look by twisting her ponytail into a knot on top of her head and pulling a red cap over it. She arranged the scarf around her neck and face.

  “Nobody’s going to recognize me out and about, but as soon as I take all this stuff off there goes my disguise.”

  “Like I said, after what happened in Philly, I don’t think Correll is anxious for the authorities to pick you up. I think he’d rather use his own methods.”

  Despite Mike’s implication and the frisson of fear tingling down her spine, her lips stretched into a smug smile. “You did it again. You mentioned my stepfather, so you do believe he’s behind this.”

  “I always believed you, Claire. We just need to prove it.”

  “We’ll prove it, and Hamid is going to help me.”

  “If he ever gets that message.”

  “He’ll get it.” She pointed to her boots. “I suppose there are no snow boots here, are there? Walking in the snow in these heels is hell, and walking on ice is going to be even worse.”

  “There might be some boots in the mudroom in the back. What size?”

  “Eight.”

  He disappeared down the hallway and came back with a pair of snow boots. “These are a men’s nine. Do you think you can manage until you buy something in town?”

  “Walking in boots that are too big for me can’t be any worse than four-inch heels.” She changed shoes and then followed Mike into the winter wonderland. She huffed out a breath and watched it freeze in the air. “If there’s snow in DC, I guess this is what you get in Vermont.”

  Mike started the engine of the car and cranked on the heat and defrosters. Then they both got to work on the front and back windshields, clearing the ice from the glass.

  They hopped into the car and made the slow, winding drive back to the small town of Maplewood.

  Her knees bounced as they drew closer to civilization. Had the FBI plastered her picture all over the place like Hamid’s, or did Spencer have his own private hell planned for her that didn’t involve the authorities?

  What would the good people of Maplewood do if they recognized her? Make a citizens’ arrest? Would the Maplewood PD try to take down a terror suspect?

  Her eye twitched. How could anyone believe she’d throw her lot in with terrorists when she’d spent the better part of the past five years in her own private war against them?

  Spencer had used her former instability and irrational threats against Deputy Director Haywood to set her up, and she’d walked right into his trap.

  But he didn’t know she’d have Mike Becker in that trap with her. Did her stepfather still believe her fiancé was a politically naive salesman from Chicago?

  Let him. Spencer had unwittingly walked into a trap called Prospero, and he’d pay the price.

  “Are you nervous?” His gloved hand ran down her arm, making the slick material of her coat whisper.

  “Nobody followed us up here, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Of course, we thought that before when we dumped the tracker, my phone and then my car, and they still caught up with us.”

  “My fault.” He returned his hand to the steering wheel. “The money was a foreign object introduced into our environment. I should’ve checked it out before allowing you to bring it into the car.”

  “As I recall, we were in a hurry when I brought that money into the car. An FBI agent was literally hanging on to my coattails, or what I thought was an FBI agent.”

  “Then after.” He raised his shoulders. “I should’ve examined it later. Total fail on my part.”

  “You redeemed yourself by saving me in the alley.”

  “I’ll redeem myself when this is over and you’re safe.”

  “Mike?”

  “Yeah?”

  Her lip trembled and she clasped her mittened hands together in her lap. “I won’t know what to do when it’s over. I won’t know who I am.”

  He wheeled the car into a parking space in front of the local post office and cut the engine. “You’ll be one tough chick who never gave up and who will be able to face anything—even if that anything is the monthly PTA meeting.”

  Her nose stung and she sniffed. “I think I can handle a PTA meeting.”

  As they walked into the post office, Claire kept bundled up in the chilly interior of the building. Her gaze darted among the items on display, half expecting to find her mug on a wanted poster.

  Mike selected a priority mail pouch and shoved the cigarette box inside, the blue pills nestled in the box.

  He paid the clerk with cash and asked, “Is there a women’s clothing store nearby? My wife needs to pick up a few more warm items.”

  “Down about two blocks there are a couple of stores.” She tossed the package into the wheeled cart behind her and gave Mike his change. “It sure is an early winter this year. Maybe it’ll be a short one.”

  “We can only hope.” Mike rapped his knuckles on the counter. “Thanks, and happy holidays.”

  When they got outside, he asked, “Can you walk a few blocks?”

  “Absolutely not.” She kicked up one foot. “These boots are practically falling off my feet.”

  They got back in the car and crawled down the street until a few clothing stores came into view.

  “Ready to shop till you drop?”

  “Sure. I’m not picky.”

  He dropped his jaw in mock astonishment. “I don’t know much about clothes, but I’m pretty sure yours cost an arm and a leg.”

  “I mean,” she said, punching his arm, “I’m not picky when faced with wearing the same thing day after da
y. I’m really not high maintenance. You should’ve seen me when I was with the Peace Corps in Guatemala. Not a designer thread in sight.”

  “You were a Peace Corps volunteer?”

  She nodded as she grabbed the car door handle. “It’s where I met Shane.”

  On the sidewalk, Mike stopped in front of a newspaper dispenser. “I need some reading material while you try on clothes.”

  “I won’t be that long, but you can check out the news on me and Hamid, if there is any.”

  She scurried into the store while Mike fed some coins into the dispenser.

  A clerk looked up from folding sweaters. “Good morning. Can I help you find something?”

  “Just some casual clothes. I didn’t pack enough for this cold.”

  “I hear you. It’s crazy for December, even for us.” She plopped a sweater on the pile and turned toward rows of cubbies on the wall. “We have jeans on this side, and even snow pants if you need them.”

  “I just might need them.” Claire fingered the slick material of a pair of black snow pants hanging on a rack.

  The little bell above the door rang as Mike pushed his way into the store, the newspaper tucked under his arm.

  “Can I help you?”

  He waved the paper at Claire. “I’m with her.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. We have a few chairs outside the dressing room just for the gentlemen.”

  “Perfect.” He collapsed in one of the chairs and said, “Knock yourself out, sweetheart.”

  Claire rolled her eyes and stationed herself in front of the array of jeans, scanning the labels for her size.

  After she selected a few pairs of pants, she browsed the long-sleeved T-shirts and sweaters. With her arms piled high with clothes, she approached the clerk. “I’m ready to try these on.”

  She flicked Mike’s newspaper as she walked by. “Do you want me to model anything, sweetheart?”

  “You look good in everything, babe.”

  The clerk smiled as she unlocked the dressing room for Claire. “You have a keeper there.”

  “Don’t I know it?” He even takes out bad guys with a flying leap and roundhouse kick to the midsection.

  She shimmied in and out of several pairs of jeans, dropping more in the keep pile than not. She pulled on sweaters and shirts and held on to anything halfway decent.

  She called out, “Do you want me to leave the clothes I’m not buying in here, or do you want them?”

  “I’ll take care of them.”

  Claire loaded up her arms and squeezed out of the dressing room. She brushed past Mike. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  “No.”

  The curt response had her twisting her head over her shoulder, and she nearly dropped her clothes in a heap.

  The relaxed, loose-limbed man in the chair had been replaced by a tense one, vibrating with alertness, every muscle in his body primed for action.

  Her gaze dropped from his face to the newspaper open in his lap. He must’ve read something about her, something bad.

  “Oh, you’re taking all those?” The clerk held out her arms for Claire’s finds.

  “Y-yes. These’ll do. I also need some underwear.”

  “Long underwear?”

  “Yes, and panties, bras.”

  “In the back.”

  Mike had folded the paper and joined the clerk at the counter.

  Claire rushed to the back of the shop and scooped up several pairs of underwear and a couple of bras in her size—they’d have to do. She couldn’t spend one more minute in this store.

  The clerk bagged her purchases while Mike pulled out a wad of bills. They clearly hadn’t needed the money from the safe deposit box, since Mike carried oodles of what he called untraceable cash.

  He couldn’t get rid of it fast enough as he paid for Claire’s clothes.

  If the friendly clerk had noticed a change in Mike’s demeanor, she was too polite to react to it. “You two have a great day, and stay warm.”

  Mike nodded and Claire said, “You, too.”

  When they hit the sidewalk, burdened with bags, she spun toward him. “What happened? What did you read in that newspaper?”

  “In the car.” He popped the trunk and they tossed the bags inside.

  When they got inside, Mike dropped the folded-back paper in her lap and jabbed his finger at an article, poking her thigh in the process. “Look at this.”

  She glanced at the black print in her lap, heaving a sigh. At least her face wasn’t plastered there.

  She held up the paper to the light coming through the window and read. “‘Gathering to honor fallen CIA director. The White House announced plans to pay tribute to Gerald Haywood, the director of the CIA, who was killed in a car bomb on Tuesday in Georgetown, with a gathering of his friends and colleagues, both domestic and international, on Christmas Day.’”

  She trailed off. “So? Isn’t that to be expected?”

  “Don’t you get it?” He grabbed the paper from her hand, crumpling it in his fist. “The attack on the White House is back on—and this is the venue.”

  Chapter Ten

  Mike paced the living room of the small cabin. He’d already contacted Jack, and Prospero was formulating a plan to infiltrate the gathering.

  Even though Tempest knew Prospero’s agent, Liam McCabe, had uncovered its plans for an attack at the White House, it hadn’t deterred Tempest. They were going forward with the attack—Mike was sure of it.

  When he passed by Claire for the hundredth time, she grabbed his arm. “Sit down and relax, Mike. You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “I can’t believe they’re going through with it. They have to know Prospero is going to pull out all the stops to foil them.”

  “That’s good, then. They’re so single-mindedly crazy, they’re not thinking straight.” She squeezed his biceps. “Have one of those beers we picked up.”

  His eyebrows collided over his nose. “It’s lunchtime.”

  “You know what they say—it’s five o’clock somewhere.”

  He narrowed his dark eyes. “You’re calm about this whole thing.”

  She stepped back from him. “I’m not happy about it, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  His eyebrows jumped to his hairline and then he took her in his arms, wrapping her in a warm embrace. “I didn’t think that for a minute. Nobody could blame you for feeling satisfied on some level that your gut instincts were right.”

  “I don’t care about that right now.” She grabbed handfuls of his shirt and tugged. “I’m going to get you that beer.”

  “Okay, you win.”

  He dropped his arms, and a chill flashed across her body. She shouldn’t have been so eager to break that clinch. Whenever Mike held her, or even touched her, he gave her a sense of safety and security.

  If she was honest with herself, Shane had never given that to her. He’d been all about the thrill first and safety—his and hers—second.

  She shook her head to dislodge the disloyal thoughts then went into the kitchen and grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge.

  She rummaged through the utensil drawer until she found a bottle opener. “Do you want yours in a glass?”

  Instead of an answer, she heard tapping. She leaned back to see into the living room. Mike was on his laptop, clicking away. “I thought you were going to relax?”

  “We haven’t checked your message board in a while...and no glass.”

  She opened both bottles and returned to the living room, where she stood in front of him, holding out his beer. “It’s happy hour.”

  Glancing up, he said, “I’m all logged in. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Her fingers were itching to attack that keyboard and check for a message from Hamid, but they both needed ten minutes to breathe.

  When he’d explained the significance of that White House gathering, she’d been as freaked out as he was, but for once she wanted to
be the one with the calm exterior. Mike had been keeping it together for her through it all, and she wanted to prove she could keep it together, too.

  She hadn’t quite figured out yet whether she wanted to prove she could be calm and collected to Mike or herself, but both had value.

  “Skol.” She lifted the bottle and then tilted it to her lips and took a swig of the malty brew.

  He reached up to take the other bottle from her hand. “Skol.”

  He shoved the laptop from his legs. “Have a seat.”

  “That’s better.” She settled on the love seat next to him and touched the neck of her bottle to his with a clink. “Tell me about your last assignment with Prospero.”

  “This is my last assignment with Prospero.”

  “I mean your second-to-last. What were you doing before Jack asked you to check in on his wife’s crazy friend?”

  “It’s top secret.” He put his finger to his lips, but his frame had stiffened and the lines on his face deepened.

  “Are you serious?” She dragged her gaze away from his delicious mouth. “You’ve already told me plenty of—what I can only guess is—classified information. Hell, you’ve let me use your secure phone and laptop.”

  “Because you’re involved in this case.” He took a sip of his beer. “I’d be breaking a code if I told you about anything else.”

  She toyed with the opening of her bottle. “That must get lonely.”

  “Lonely?”

  “Keeping everything to yourself all the time.”

  “There are other things to talk about besides work.”

  “The weather?” She laced her fingers around the bottle of beer. “You’re not exactly forthcoming about your personal life.”

  He was in midsip and he choked on his beer. “Really? Given the amount of time we’ve had to talk about anything but our current situation, I think I’ve revealed a lot.”

  “You know what?” On an impulse, she reached out and brushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead and then studied his face. “I think you have. You’ve parsed it out between car bombs, fleeing from the FBI and an attempted kidnapping, but I actually know quite a bit about you.”